Chapter 53
53
BLAKE, 2001
20 years old
The sunlight hit just right this morning—filtered through the cracked window, as if it knew I was finally allowing myself to sleep in. My alarm never went off. On purpose. I had turned it off last night, my fingers heavy with the kind of exhaustion that could only be earned.
Outside, the street was quiet. A rare thing in this part of the city. A dog barked once. A car passed with music low enough to barely register. I leaned back into the worn black cushion of the armchair I’d dragged in from a thrift store last fall. Still creaked when I sat in it. Still smelled like lavender and dust.
I thumbed my phone out of sleep mode, checking messages I’d already seen twice.
Then it buzzed in my hand, Mom flashing across the screen.
I answered on the second ring.“Hey, Ma.”
“You picked up,” she said, the relief in her voice instant. “Hey, sweetheart.” There was something about her voice lately. Softer. Lighter. Warm and weary and somehow still stitched with love, even after everything. Like she’d learned how to breathe again.
I didn’t say it out loud, but I think Boston helped. Her parents helped. Or maybe just the simple act of waking up somewhere that didn’t echo with absence.
I smiled slightly. “What, you didn’t think I would pick up?”
“Well, I thought you’d be elbows deep in equations or world domination or whatever you do these days.”
I huffed a quiet laugh, shifting the phone to my other ear.
“You sound good,” she said. “You sleeping better?”
I shrugged even though she couldn’t see me. “Getting there.”
She hummed, satisfied. “Progress.”
I let the silence stretch for a moment, feeling the sunlight warm my bare feet against the hardwood. “How’s Boston?”
“Oh, you know,” she replied, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “My dad finally figured out how to use his new phone.” She laughed softly before adding, “I was just thinking about you, actually.”
I lowered my mug. “Yeah?”
“You sounded happy last week. In your message.”
“I guess I am,” I said, surprising myself with how easy the words came. “I’m in a good rhythm here. I’m sleeping more. Cooking, sometimes.”
“Cooking?”
“Don’t sound so shocked.”
“I’m just picturing the fire department outside your?—”
“No fire,” I chuckled. “Not yet.”
She let out a light laugh. I missed that sound—the way it used to echo off our old kitchen walls before everything cracked.
“You should come visit again,” she murmured. “We could go to that diner you liked. The one with the lemon pancakes.”
“I will,” I promised. “Soon.”
“Don’t wait too long, Blake. The world doesn’t pause just because we do.”
I nodded, my throat tightening a little. “I know.”
We talked for a few more minutes.
She asked about the books I was reading. I lied and said something fiction-based instead of the five dense manuals stacked on my nightstand. She pretended to believe me.
When the conversation started to wind down, she hesitated. “You do seem happy,” she said gently.
“I am, Mom.”
“You’re doing something that matters?”
“Trying to.”
A pause. Then, “And you’re taking care of yourself?”
I exhaled slowly. “I’m trying there, too.”
She didn’t push.
Eventually, she said, “I’m glad you picked up.”
“I’m glad you called.”
We hung up not long after, and I just sat there for a while, the soft hum of the city waking up around me filling the quiet.
I was happy. I had a place of my own. A rhythm to my days.
I went on runs, made my own coffee, and paid for groceries with my own money. Most mornings, I even woke up without dread waiting at the foot of my bed.
But then there were the other days. The ones where I swore I smelled Tommy Girl in the grocery store. Where I passed a girl with blonde wavy hair and forgot how to breathe for a second. Where I heard someone humming Always Be My Sunshine under their breath, and I had to leave the room.
I didn’t know where Beverly was. Or what Beverly was doing. But wherever she was, I hoped she was safe. I hoped she had mornings like this—ones where the air didn’t feel heavy. Ones where she could smile without it hurting. I hoped someone brought her breakfast just the way she liked it.
I hoped she still wore my sweatshirt.
I glanced over at the pink scrunchie still looped around the bottom of my desk lamp. My fingers itched to pick it up.
I didn’t.
Instead, I grabbed my notebook, flipped to a blank page, and wrote down three things I was grateful for.
I’d started doing that a few months back. Another suggestion from Dr. Lemkin. I’d rolled my eyes at first, but now? It helped.
August 18th
1. A warm bed at the end of a long day
2. That I still remember the exact shade of her eyes
2. That rush of losing yourself in a book mid-sentence
3. Second chances
I stared at that last one for a long time.
Then I closed the notebook and let myself enjoy the quiet.